


When I Go Hungry

by morguerow



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anorexia, Bulimia, Eating Disorders, F/M, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Love, Multi, Obsession, Self-Hatred, Yandere, Yandere Kim Yoosung
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:53:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23465011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morguerow/pseuds/morguerow
Summary: "... I go nail and tooth / when I go hungry / I go hungry / I go hungry for the truth."It's easy to pretend sometimes that there's nothing wrong with me. It's easy to find pleasure in the pain, to keep my hunger in my gut and cradle it there like a first-prize trophy. I can reward myself. I can acknowledge what I do right. That's the easy part.The hard part is the envy. It feasts away on my every thought, forces me to put myself into perspective. See, it says, you haven't made progress. You haven't tried hard enough. You haven't truly earned it. Everyone else is so much happier and prettier and lighter than you.So when I first see her, I don't know if I want to be with her, be her, or eat her so that maybe, maybe, I can somehow crystallize her inside of me and absorb her into my being. So that maybe, maybe I can somehow become as perfect as she is.It's easy to waste away. But dragging everyone else down with you? That's the hard part. And if I can't be perfect, nobody can.tw for eating disorders, abuse, yandere!Yoosung, etc. if you suffer from an ed, look to the notes at the end
Relationships: Kim Yoosung & Main Character, Kim Yoosung/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15





	1. hungry for you

I sit in front of a full-length window, cross-legged and tired; the window engulfs me, expands wall-to-wall, ceiling to floor, and from it, the entire city can be seen. But I don’t find myself looking through windows anymore, my reflection always blocks my gaze. Especially at night. At night, I get no peace. All I can see in the window is my own reflection. A blonde boy wrapped in a blanket. Instinctively, I wrap my hand around my wrist and my reflection does the same. The gap between my fingers makes me gag.]

The dorm room smells like rotting food and vomit, probably -- I stopped being able to notice the scent a while ago, but every so often when I come back from class, it’ll hit me at the doorway in a stale, sickly wave. At first, it’ll be comforting -- ah, the sweet smell of progress! -- but then I’ll remember my own secret and lock the door, embarrassed. If it’s this pungent to me, I can’t imagine what the students in the hall think. As if I ever cross their minds.  
But right now, I am focusing on my reflection, on its wrist, on why it looks so fucking wide in the glass. Why it bends and folds like that. Why it brings me to my knees in disgust. Focusing on my fat wrists is only a weak distraction, though -- I can’t even bear to look at my own face, because I know it’ll be so bloated it’ll push me off the edge and back on the bike again. I smirk. So much for recovery.

My phone chirps, breaking me out of my hate-fueled reverie. I look at the screen and see a familiar redheaded icon next to a three-worded message: _where are you?_ My eyes feel heavier just by reading it. Seven doesn’t know, and can’t know. Nobody can know until I reach the point of being thin enough to deserve it. Responding will only make it worse, only draw out the process. I turn the phone on silent and meet my reflection’s gaze once more. He stares back, mockingly.

*

It wasn’t always like this. I used to be in control at one point, sometime two years ago, maybe longer. I didn’t vomit as frequently and more used to come up when I did. This was before I started doing bodychecks in every reflective surface available -- mirrors, puddles, store fronts, windows of cars with people still in them -- and before I started doing it absentmindedly, sizing up my wrists or rubbing my collarbones in class. I had control before I dropped twenty pounds just by fasting. I had control back when my grades were still good, back when I still went to class everyday. I tell myself this constantly, like a mantra or a prayer. _I used to have control,_ I think. _So I can get it again. It isn’t getting that bad._  
In reality, the illness is my best friend. It dictates what I eat, if I deserve to eat, what I wear, where I’m allowed to go, who I’m allowed to see. The illness is like a parent, a provider. It only wants what’s best for me, and what’s best for me is to be so thin I disappear.

“Yoosung,” a voice booms, bringing me back to reality. “Care to share what you wrote for number three?”

I sit up straighter at the desk, clearing my throat, trying to somehow find a way to shrink into myself. The class waits and I feel all thirty pairs of eyeballs digging into my skin, lifting me up and spinning me around, judging every angle and every single thing I try to hide. _They know,_ the illness says to me. _They know about your disgusting little habit._

“For number three?” I stutter, flipping through the pages of my notebook. “Let me check, um-”

“Professor!”

The door swings open, and I take the opportunity to shut the fuck up. _You make yourself look so dumb, it whispers. Fat, stupid, unsuccessful - you’re the full package, Yoosung. Rika would be so proud to see you now._ I grit my teeth and let the thoughts wash over me. It's what I deserve. If Rika knew me as I am now, she would be disgusted by me.

Which is why looking up from my lap is my greatest mistake. For the first time in my life, I see a ghost and it almost brings me to tears.

My chest tightens, twists into knots that pull my rib cage closed. The girl who saved me from embarrassing myself -- is _Rika._ Or, at least, she looks so much like Rika it hurts. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so beautiful in my life. Her hair flows effortlessly, light brown and wavy, bangs cut right above her eyes, ends curling against her waist. Her skin is so soft it looks unnatural, somehow. She can’t be real. There’s no way she’s real. Rika died but this -- angel, this porcelain doll is staring me in the face and telling me that everything I know is wrong. She turns to find her seat and I realize with a sickly sense of masochism that she’s real, she’s real, oh god how can someone like that exist? It’s not Rika -- no, this Angel Girl is better. Her eyes are a soft gossamer baby blue, and her wrists can’t be more than an inch across. My cheeks are on fire. I don't know if I want to be with her, or be her, or _eat her._ Consume her entirely so I can have her essence inside of me and maybe get the chance to be just as perfect as she is. She would taste like milk and honey and sugar and feel just as sweet going down my greedy gaping throat. _I want her inside of me and I want to be inside of her._  
Then the bell rings.

I stumble to my feet and pack my bag, wanting nothing more than to disappear back into my apartment and find out who this Rika doppelganger is, find out if she was somehow made for me.

“Mr. Kim, can I speak with you for a moment before you leave?”

My heart feels like lead as I look up at the professor and meet his eyes. _Dumbass,_ the illness taunts. _You made a spectacle of yourself, and now he knows. He knows everything._ It’s impossible but there’s always a chance that maybe, maybe it’s right. Maybe he does know. Maybe he’s going to threaten to get me hospitalized again. Maybe I should just pretend I didn’t hear him and run.  
But of course, like a good boy, I let the other students file out and hang by his desk. Now it’s just me, him, and the Angel Girl. I can’t look at her again or my thoughts will go so fast I’ll get whiplash.

“Yoosung, I’m worried about you lately.”  
Oh god here it comes I should’ve fucking left-  
“Your grades are slipping a bit, and you don’t seem focused anymore. I don’t mean to overstep any boundaries, but please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help you get back on track.”

I almost choke on my spit. So this isn’t about my chew-and-spit habit?

“Thank you, Professor,” I say, mustering as much energy as I can into my words. “Just very recently, my cousin died--” _lie. She died over two years ago._ “It was very sudden and it’s sort of all I can think about now--” _another lie. How would poor Rika feel, knowing you’re using her as an excuse to hide the fact that the only thought in your head is when you’ll get your next meal, fatty? Pathetic._ “I’m really sorry. I’m gonna try harder to re-apply myself,” I finish. My stomach is churning by the end of my spiel. I can already feel my mouth filling with saliva. What a familiar feeling...

The Professor stares at me for a long while, and the pity in his eyes makes me want to slit my own wrists. I really am pathetic.  
“I understand,” he says. “You’re still my top student, Yoosung, so don’t worry too much. I’m so sorry for your loss. Just take it easy, and I’m sure you’ll get back on track.”

I practically sprint out of his class, bolt around the corner, and vomit into a trash can. It feels fucking awful, but so intoxicatingly good that I wish I had a bigger breakfast just so I had more to throw up. My eyes sting as I wipe my mouth, lean against the wall. My breathing slows.

The Angel Girl floods my mind, making me realize that it's all worth it. I won't eat for a month if it means she'll notice me, somehow.

So I convince myself that that's what I have to do.


	2. hungry for salvation

For the next few days, I pray to the Angel Girl before I go to sleep and I have dreams of doing things I’ve never done with a girl before. Wicked, unspeakable things that I’m ashamed of when I wake up. But that doesn’t stop me from aching for them. If anything, it makes me want them even more.  
She needs to be mine. She needs to depend on me entirely, solely. She needs to need me in order to live. The thought that she might be dating or talking to other guys makes me sick to my stomach, makes me see red. I want to be the only one.

_But do you deserve to be the only one? You’re so waifish, so feminine. I wouldn’t be surprised if she picked a real man over you, little boy._

I sit up in my bed and feel every bone in my body crack itself awake. It’s not wrong. I’m weak, short, girly. The Angel Girl would never even look at me, let alone want me above all others. I start to get worked up, start to allow the illness to envelope me again -- a shield of self-doubt to put me back in my place -- but my alarm goes off. And like a possessed husk, the illness takes my body and begins my routine.

My daily morning routine is meticulous. I have to do it every day otherwise I’m at risk of losing control. And if I lose control, everything -- all my hard work, my achievements, my restraint, my secrecy -- means nothing in an instant. I walk into my bathroom and weigh myself, naked. That’s step one. You’re thinnest when you first wake up. The number of the scale, of course, makes me want to puke.

Step two is to brush my teeth, vigorously. Vomiting your guts out makes your teeth decay faster, so brushing as often as possible is important. I don’t wash my hair, because starving makes it easier to fall out, and I don't need any reason to break the fast. I’ll shower after I work out.

I then waltz into my kitchen. I don’t even glance at my cabinets because I know they’re empty. You should always keep your cupboards and refrigerator as empty as possible. You can’t binge if there’s nothing to binge on. Step three is to drink green tea first thing in the morning to kick start my metabolism and give me the energy I don’t get from eating. Zero calories if you don’t add anything at all. It’s really easy to lose weight, trust me, it’s just that nobody is dedicated enough to do it. But me? I was chosen for this task. I was born for it.

Step four is cardio. My exercise bike is my best friend. I hop on, adjust the resistance, then pause for a moment. Cardio burns fat, but doesn’t build physique. I grab two fifteen pound dumbbells and work on my arms as I cycle. If she wants masculine, then I’ll become masculine. I’ll make sure my arms and chest are toned better than Zen’s. My illness is delighted.

Once I start to work out, my mind is finally at rest. Step five is forced ignorance. It’s a simple process. Breathe out more calories than you breathe in. The pain is easy to ignore if you know you’re supposed to ignore it. Sometimes I really like to feel the pain though, the contractions of an empty stomach begging to eat. But this is not my stomach’s body, and my hunger is not running the show. I am. I refuse to ever let my hunger think it’s in control of me again. Hunger is an emotion. I can suppress it, just like everything else. And in that moment, during the mixture of pleasure and pain, ignorance and endurance, I absolutely _love_ my body. And my body loves me.

*

“Iseul,” I say aloud, and the name rings through my apartment like a symphony. My heart flutters. “Im Iseul,” I repeat, staring at her image on my computer screen. Her Facebook wasn’t hard to find once I got her name off of the class roster -- the only Im Iseul who listed Sky Academy as her university -- and once I found that, I found everything. Selfies, family members, where she works, what she likes to do -- I even start to memorize the way she speaks, the cadence and rhythm in her typing. I hear it in my mind, a blithe and bouncy birdsong calling out my name. Scrolling reveals a photo of her schedule, and comments from her friends asking to eat in the cafeteria together at 2, her only time off between classes. I could easily go there today, now, and wait. 

_Freak,_ the illness mutters. _What makes you think her noticing you would be a positive thing? She’s going to see you and turn away in disgust. The sight of you will make her sick._

Why? I did everything right. I haven’t been eating. This is the most I’ve restricted in months. Fasting was never easy for me -- it was always easier to binge and purge, or eat in small increments and throw it up. So I’m _really_ trying. I’m trying so fucking hard. And somehow, it’s still not enough for you?

_Of course it isn’t enough. If your heart’s still beating, you aren’t trying hard enough. If you were really ill, you’d let me in. You'd let me kill you. You’re just faking. Pretending to be sick for attention and sympathy. Pathetic. As always._

Okay then. If that's what you want, then I’ll let fucking you kill me. I’ll let you consume and deteriorate my body into nothingness. I’ll let you devour me whole, let you twist and contort me into something unrecognizable, something inhuman. I’ll make you who I am. And if I’m faking, it’s what I deserve. If I’m not faking, then it’s only natural. Is that good enough for you?

I don’t get a response, so I assume the illness is appeased for now. But I can still feel it gnawing at the edges of my psyche. It’s getting bad again, and when it gets this bad, the illness's bloodlust is almost insatiable. It won’t be long until it asks for more.

But looking at this girl stirs something in me -- something so sickeningly similar to hunger that it hurts. An ache deep inside me, a longing I’ve never had before in my life. It makes me dizzy, it gets me high. I love it. It replaces any inadequacy that I feel and I never want it to end.  
I must talk to her. I have to verify that the real her intoxicates me just as much as the thought of her does. And if it does, holy shit if it _does,_ I don’t think I’ll ever feel real hunger again.

*

I find myself not being able to wait even until 2. Being in her presence, in the same classroom, makes it impossible for me. My leg jumps anxiously. I have restraint in every aspect of my life except this. I can barely take it. I made sure to wear something unassuming today -- ripped jeans and an oversized red sweater. I want my body to be swallowed in my clothes. She can’t see it, not yet. I’m nowhere near where I need to be. But I tried to at least pretty myself up. I put red hair clips in to match, even wore my earrings for once. I never bother trying this hard, but this is a special occasion. So I swallow down the illness’s taunts and deal with it. If she’s going to notice me, then I could at least make her like what she sees. The bell rings and I nearly jolt out of my seat.

I pack my bag and wait for the other students to leave, and then I see her. Brown hair grazing her waist. Blue eyes forward. Pink manicured nails clutching her phone. The phone case is pink and white checkered, with charms dangling off of it. Even with my height, she’s still shorter than me, and can’t be much taller than Rika was... My cheeks flood with a warmth that travels down my spine and into the pit of my stomach, then lower still. I zip up my bag as she passes my desk. Here goes nothing.

“Excuse me, miss,” I call out, voice cheery. It feels unnatural. Talking feels unnatural. Fake, even.

She turns to face me and shoots me the most ethereal smile. My cheeks get hotter. “Yes?” she asks, and oh my god, her voice is velveteen. It’s liquid silk. I want to taste the tongue it flows off of. If it feels this good, I can’t imagine the taste.

“You’re the top student in the class.” I don’t know where I’m going with this but boy am I going.

She smiles modestly. “Behind you, of course. Second place.”

“Not for long,” I admit, rubbing the back of my neck. Sheepish. Boyish. Not too masculine, but charming. She’s not turning away, not bored, not disinterested. She’s maintaining eye contact. She’s blushing. She likes it. Keep going. “My grades are sort of dropping. I can’t focus recently…”

“Oh, I heard,” she frowns, then stutters. “I-I mean, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard what happened. I’m really sorry, Yoosung-ssi.” 

My name coming out of her mouth feels like heaven. It’s almost orgasmic. I have to remind myself to breathe, and to try to match her solemn look. “Thank you... I’m sorry for bothering you actually, it’s just -- I was wondering if you're busy for the next few days? I think you could help me get back on track. You’re so intelligent, I really think you’re the only person who could actually tutor me.” I don’t realize what I’m saying until I say it, until it’s out in the world and it’s too late to bring it back in, and the illness is instantly at my throat.

_You want her to tutor you? In your apartment? The apartment that reeks of death? It’s like you want her to find out what you really are. Are you that masochistic and fucking stupid, or just desperate for attention as usual? Instead of forcing her into your disgusting, rotting hellhole, just kill yourself already! She’s better off not knowing you, everyone will feel bad, and you’ll get the attention you so desperately crave. Problem solved._

I feel my cheery facade start to falter, and I panic. It’s always worse when my secret is at risk of being exposed. The last time was when Rika had me hospitalized. I learned my lesson quick, though, because the illness punished me for that, too. Ninety days in the hospital being forced fed and monitored, and the moment I was discharged, I relapsed. Hard. Worse than just starving and purging. Worse than hating myself…  
But that’s a story for another time.

Iseul blushes, covers her face. “Stop, I’m not that smart,” she croons, in a way that says _I know I’m smart but keep telling me, I’ll keep eating it up._ Humans are so easy to understand sometimes.

“Oh yeah, miss second place? If you weren’t smart, I wouldn’t be admitting defeat to you right now, would I?” I laugh. “I’m really asking for help, and you’re the only person in this class who can do it. Please.” I pout cutely, and she laughs.

She pretends to think for a moment, but I know her mind’s already made up. She grins. “Okay!” 

My heart almost stops entirely. I go numb.

“Okay,” I repeat, dumbly. I start to feel the blood flowing through my veins again. “Let’s trade information and we can figure out later where and when to meet?”

She’s speaking but I can’t hear her over my heartbeat throbbing loudly in my ears, but I'm still talking, too. We exchange phone numbers and goodbyes, and I watch her leave. It’s only then that I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding.

Holy shit.

_Congrats,_ the illness hisses. _She fell for it. She thinks you’re a good person, but for how long? And even if you find yourself being her friend, she’ll only ever view you as a brother. You know that. You’re too cutesy to even be considered a romantic interest. You assured that for yourself today._

I can’t make it stop. I can’t make it go away. I cover my ears and hide my head and the thoughts just keep flooding in. All I can do it take it.

_And even if you somehow trick your way into forcing her to like you, how will she react to your disgusting body? Your sick thoughts? How will she react to me? And when are you gonna tell her that the only reason you’re interested in her is because she looks so much like Rika? Or are you planning on hiding the fact that you fell in love with your own flesh and blood? You’re so painfully fucked up, Yoosung. Nobody will ever accept you or love you like I do._

I end up walking home in the rain, head throbbing, body numb. I don’t remember getting home, really. I don’t know the time. Or day. Or year. Every street felt long and far away. My home feels foreign. The ceiling spins. I am far removed from my body and my body is on autopilot.

But I come to eventually. Unfortunately, I always come to. And when I do, I’m in front of a mirror, naked. My room is trashed. The tub is running. I first see my eyes. I watch myself come back into my body. And then I see my ribs. My skin is littered with small red and blue bruises, going from my hips to my collarbones, but mostly converging around my ribs. It looks like I got jumped. Did I? I doubt it. I should've seen the warning signs when I was talking to Iseul. I wasn't going numb from pleasure. I was losing it. My consciousness was drifting away from my body. I was dissociating. I didn't even notice. And I just _let_ it happen.

Then my heart catches in my throat. I’ve been this bad before. I’ve been worse. I flip my arms over and check my wrists. They’re bare. Unopened. Untouched. I sigh, and my ribcage groans in pain.

You didn’t cut yourself, I think. That’s good. Rika would be really proud of you. I walk into the bathroom and stop the running water, stare at my reflection in the tub. And for once, it’s not the illness that chimes in -- it’s me.  
Rika wouldn’t be proud of me. She would be absolutely terrified. 

My illness grins inside of me. _That just means you’re working harder than ever before. Be proud of **yourself.**_  
And for the first time, I feel _it._ It's heavier than the illness, darker. More primal. It envelopes my body and it's warm. It starts at my toes and climbs up, creeping until every part of me is filled with it. I turn to the bathroom mirror and I see my reflection smile. It is twisted and wrong.

Rika would see my hollowed out face, my sinewy fingers, my sallow skin, and she would scream. She would be terrified. She would hate me again. She would call me a monster. 

The primal guest inside of me decides that somehow, that’s a good thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i made a playlist to help inspire me as i continue to write. you can check it out here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5lumuFa3aZheQRe8QueuUZ?si=42BgRdP3QZeUU_Vy_fVFyQ
> 
> thank you for the comments and encouragement! any criticism is welcome as well. i havent properly written in a few years so im still warming up to it. thank you!

**Author's Note:**

> National Eating Disorders Association Helpline: 1-800-931-2237  
> Hopeline Network: 1-800-442-4673  
> National Association of Anorexia Nervosa and Associated Disorders: 1-630-577-1330  
> Overeaters Anonymous: 1-505-891-2664  
> Crisis Textline: Text CONNECT to 741741


End file.
